It Was Worth Many Waits
by AdidasandPie
Summary: Rewrite of 3GAB with a little Freisland sprinkled in. Sherlock and John re-evaluate the cost of waiting. Non slash.
1. Chapter 1

****_A/N: chapter 1 of 2  
><em>

**It Was Worth Many Waits**

It would be a stretch of the truth (an _extremely_ elastic truth) to call Sherlock Holmes an easy man to be a friend of. Not that he wasn't alright, sometimes. Just that when he got in the thick of a big, sticky case, he could be, to phrase it delicately, a great big git.

Mycroft recommended the case to Sherlock (when I say "recommended", I mean forced Sherlock to take it, and when I say "to Sherlock", I mean he insisted that _I _somehow convince Sherlock to investigate). It didn't help that _Mycroft _recommended it, what with that petty feud of theirs. It also didn't help that we had to spend three days on a Dutch cruise ship with pompous diplomats, or as Sherlock deemed them, "the hellions of high society". Sherlock did his best to act his worse in any situation requiring formal etiquette (although he did at least refrain from clothing himself in bed sheets ), and I was therefore burdened with the responsibility of acting adult enough for the both of us while simultaneously attempting to coerce Sherlock into behaving accordingly. As far as sticky cases go, this one was molasses mixed with honey, and if Mycroft hadn't assured me that the resolution would ensure European peace for the next decade, I would have jumped off that hellship and swam for shore days ago.

As it were, my bloody conscience persuaded me otherwise, because not only was there the international peace nonsense to take care of, but also my most-loathed position as Sherlock's caretaker. I was fine with being his friend, or his colleague, or his partner in investigation. I was even fine, sometimes, with being his idiot if it helped him reached conclusions, but I would _not_ gladly suffer being his _babysitter_. And it was this sort of case that relegated me to that status.

Sherlock was doing that moronic thing where he refused to eat while he worked. Simply refused. Like an infant. That was alright for a case that lasted a day or two, maybe even three with Sherlock. But we were on that damn ship for a week, and I coaxed more food into Sherlock than I was pleased with (for the record , the amount of food-coaxing that I am normally pleased with is no coaxing at all). Sleep, too, seemed a rare entity, and I am not such a happy camper when running on very little sleep for days on end.

By the end of the week my temper was thin as a strand of hair, and Sherlock's thinner, and about every four in five words we said to each other were malevolent.

"John, pass me a pen."

"You're sitting at a desk. There's a pen directly in front of you."

"Out of ink."

"Well, you're going to have to get up and get one. I'm having a sit."

"As am I. But, unlike you, I am also participating in that activity you so rarely indulge in: thinking; and it would logically be best for me to continue thinking while you, sitting there doing far less thinking, if any at all, pass me the pen."

The pen bounced off the back of his head and onto the desk.

"I shall use a less literal sense of the word "pass" next occasion, as you seem to not have the ability to inference that I was employing a colloquialism."

Git.

The only thing that stopped me from killing Sherlock myself then and there was that someone else tried to do it first by firing a gun through our porthole window. The bullet lodged itself in the wall where Sherlock's head had just disappeared from. He look up from where he'd bent over to pick up the pen.

"Out, now." I fumbled up from my chair and grabbed my revolver from the bedside table. Sherlock slammed the door behind me. We stood in the hallway.

"_Who _is shooting at us?" I hissed.

"More importantly," said Sherlock, "How did they shoot at us through a porthole from the outside of a ship?" He darted off down the hallway, his coat billowing behind him. We raced up three flights of stairs to an upper, open-air deck. Sherlock slammed his back onto the wall and peered around a corner.

"Sherlock, what-" I heaved a breath, "how could anyone possible follow us after shooting from _outside_ the ship?"

"More than one of them."

"Why? We haven't antagonized _anyone _on this case. Well, you have, but I haven't! And you were just being rude. Not worth shooting us, is it?" I checked behind the corner to my left. "Besides, this ship is full of international diplomats and important people. Aren't they better targets?"

"Easier targets, certainly. But if someone wanted them shot, they'd already be- ah. Ahhh."

I whipped my head back around. "What?"

"John, you are most definitely on the left side of the stair step line!" Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket and started tapping furiously.

"What are you on about?"

He stopped typing for a moment, fixing me with the particular concentrated glare he used when he was trying to tell if I was being sarcastic.

I stared back. Sherlock sigh in exasperation and resumed tapping.

"Seriously, John. The periodic table. And you mocked me for the Copernican thing. The stair step line. The line that divides metals from nonmetals on the periodic table."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Metals, John, metals! They're on the left side of the stair-step line. They conduct. _You_ conduct. By Jove, what do you _do_ with your free time?"

"I follow around a sociopathic consulting detective," I deadpanned, trying to figure out whether I had just received a compliment or an insult.

Sherlock tapped once more dramatically and shoved the phone in my face.

"The cruise line," he said triumphantly. "Not the diplomats. The target was the cruise line itself. It seems their CEO did a little embezzling-"

A bullet rammed into the wall six inches from my elbow. I pushed Sherlock around the corner and onto the open deck. We ran, crouching along the railing, then dived behind a cocktail bar.

"There," I gestured toward a figure who'd just scampered across a mine field of beach chairs across from us. I raised my gun and waited for him to reappear.

Another whizz and metallic clink. I ducked my head, my arms instinctively covering my neck.

"Here's another," Sherlock grimaced, pointing across the deck at another figure.

"Have you got your gun?" I fired at a foot sticking out from behind a beach chair. The shot ricocheted off the railing.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"You take the other one, then." I duck as another bullet smashed into the bar and broke a glass.

I fired again and produced a strangled yelp. Hit him dead in the shoulder. Goddammit.

"Have you got him yet?" I turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock aimed and shot. And missed by fifteen feet.

"Right," I nodded. I fired. The figure slumped. "I'm going to go- the other guy. I got him in the shoulder."

I scampered off towards the first man, partly because he still had his gun and partly because I knew exactly what it was like to have a shard of metal tear through your arm. He was whimpering by the time I got there. He'd dropped the gun a few feet from where he lay.

"It's alright." I dropped to my knees beside him. "You're alright."

The whole of his shoulder and arm was a bloody mess, but it looked like the bullet had missed the subclavian artery, thank God.

I needed materials. Did they even have paramedics on a cruise ship?

Another shot rang out. I ducked my head.

Between Sherlock and I, yet another man had taken cover behind a beach chair. Sherlock sent off a shot at him, but it came closer to hitting _me _than his target.

I tied off a makeshift tourniquet on the wounded bloke's shoulder and approached the most recent gunman from his flank. As he ducked behind a chair, I grabbed his gun hand and twisted. The gun clattered onto the deck.

The man yelped in surprise, then turned and sprang on me. I staggered back a few feet, knocking into beach chairs. I knocked him one across the face and he knocked me one in my ribs and then my back was against the rail and he was pushing me against it and I could hear little waves crashing into each other.

Quite suddenly, the man released his grip on me and fell backwards. Sherlock stood over him with a bludgeon-like salt shaker. He looked me over.

"I'm fine," I straightened my sweater. "You alright?"

"Yes, Im-"

I was gone after the first syllable, jogging back towards the man with the bullet in his shoulder.

* * *

><p>The ship made port that night. All passengers disembarked safely, save for the few with bullets lodged in them. Sherlock sent a text to Mycroft. The gunfight was covered up relatively easily.<p>

We'd come in at Portsmouth and had to take a train back to London. The station wasn't far from the ship, so we walked. It was getting late, and it was dark, and I was tired, and only half listening to Sherlock's explanation of the case. I trailed a little behind him.

"A personal grudge, mostly, although tainted with a good bit of financial scandal." Sherlock gestured about like he was conducting a symphony. Sometimes I wondered what people could possibly think he was. He continued on, look straight ahead. "Certainly the best way to corrupt Howard's reputation would be to sink one of his ships. And what better ship to sink than the one with every European diplomat of any importance on it? The preeminent voyage in Howard's career."

Mycroft Holmes should consider himself an inordinately lucky man, for when he grabbed my elbow and swung me into an adjacent side street, my fist was two inches away from his face before I recognized him.

"Always the soldier, Dr. Watson." He smiled in that particular way of his that mixed condescension and contrivance into a mask of something akin to emotion.

I lowered my hand and exhaled. "Apparently I need to be."

"It does seem so. Very well done with the case, may I add. Precisely the reason I wanted to see you. I simply wanted to express my congratulations and gratification by physical means." He handed me a large, dark bottle. "_Arrack_, I believe it is called. Imported from Sumatra, a beverage similar to brandy, I'm told. I hoped that you and Sherlock could perhaps enjoy it as thanks for taking the case. I'm aware it was not an easy affair to investigate."

"Oh," I said, a little lost for words, a situation that seemed to occur far too often with Mycroft. "Oh, well, thanks. Thanks very much."

"You will find that this alley will lead you to the thoroughfare which Sherlock is at this moment strolling through. He should be at the intersection in approximately forty five seconds. Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

He walked off, swinging his umbrella.

"Cheers," I mumbled. I headed down the alleyway Mycroft had indicated. Just ahead was the main road. I peeked out, trying to pick out Sherlock in the throng of people. I peered behind me to see if Mycroft was still there, and when I looked back, Sherlock had walked by. I fell into step behind him.

He was still talking. I wondered if he did this often, this not-realizing-when-I-disappear-thing. "…and with their rather clever contraption they were able to fire a gun into our porthole. "Quite simple."

"Yes, right," I mumbled.

Sherlock looked back at me. His eyes flickered to the bottle in my hands.

"Where did you get that?"

"Oh, just-"

"Nevermind. Did you surmise the reason for Howard's letter?"

"Do tell."

"It was a bribe, John, and a failed one…"

* * *

><p>We made it back to London in the wee hours of the morning, and although my body insisted that I was exhausted, my nerves were still far too jittery to do any sleeping. And Sherlock, well, he didn't sleep.<p>

I sunk into my armchair by the fire, the bottle of Afflack or whatever it was called still hanging from my hand. Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf by the door, whistling some tune he liked to play on his violin. He plopped into the chair across from me, crossing one leg over the other.

He cut off whistling in the middle of a phrase.

"Your left hand is shaking."

I looked down. The damn thing was. I squeezed my fingers together.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Fine Just a bit overtired, I'm sure."

"We _did_ get in a gun fight. Considering your somewhat recent return from war, reliable sources inform me that you could be experiencing some sort of post-war trau-"

"Ever heard of _arrack_?" I levered myself up and, miraculously, found two clean glasses in the kitchen.

"You mean the late 19th century criminal? Involved in a bank robbery scheme under the cover of a secret society of redheads."

"No, Sherlock. The alcohol."

"Alcohol?"

I sank back into the chair and poured out half a glass for each of us. I looked up as a thought occurred.

"Have you ever _had_ alcohol?"

"Well, I see no reason that I should have."

"Not even a pint at the pub? Wait, no, why would you go to the pub?"

"What use is it to me or my work?"

"No, no, it's fine. Just, you. I mean, drugs, but no alcohol."

"There are distinct differences- one is a depressant, the other a stimulant. You know mind my craves stimulation."

"Alright, alright. Here. Mycroft gave it to me."

Sherlock took the glass. At my last statement, he crinkled his nose. "That consideration makes this even more undesirable, you do know."

"Oh, come on, your brother wouldn't poison your drink."

Sherlock glared pointedly.

"Alright, well, fine. He hasn't this time. He gave it to _me_. He wouldn't poison _my_ drink. Besides, he said it was out of gratitude. A thanks for solving the case."

"What is the brand?"

I turned the bottle towards me. "Giant Rat."

"Appetizing."

I concluded that the best way to dissipate Sherlock's argument was to commit the act myself and hope he would follow, so I raised my glass and took a sip. It was a good bit stronger than any brandy I'd ever had, but not bad. A little burn.

Sherlock regarded his glass skeptically. I swirled and sniffed.

"It's good," I said.

He lifted the glass and took a drink. Well, sort of a gulp.

His subsequent reaction was one of the most comical things I have ever seen in my naught inconsiderable experience over three continents. Sherlock Holmes, having swallowed the liquid, made a face like he had just gulped down a caterpillar. He coughed three times, stuck out his tongue, and then sniffed, trying to regain an ounce of dignity, all the while still wearing the caterpillar face.

"Why the _hell_ would you want to drink that?" He spluttered. Sherlock, spluttering. This could be very interesting.

"Try not to take such big gulps," I advised. "Just little sips. You'll start to like it."

Sherlock, despite glaring quite furiously at me, took a small sip. Then another.

"You said Mycroft gave this to you?"

"Yeah, after we got off the ship."

"Was I there? Wasn't I there?"

"Not really. He did one of his things where he pulled me into a sinister alleyway and then handed me a bottle of gourmet liquor."

"Ah, that thing. It does sound like him."

Sherlock refilled his glass.

"And where was I?"

"Oh, you just kept walking."

"Oh," he said, as if I'd told him I'd decided to join the circus.

I refilled my glass.

Sherlock refilled his.

A sip.

A gulp.

Another refill.

* * *

><p>"My dear doctor," slurred Sherlock Holmes, "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent." He leapt from his chair, knocking into my desk to point out the window. I snorted, then sneezed.<p>

"If we could fly out of that window, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"I," I replied with grave solemnity, "am certain that is true."

Sherlock tripped over the rug on the way back, then danced around his chair.

"I think it's bedtime," I said, taking Sherlock's arm.

"Round and round the prickly pear!"

"Thank God your room is on this floor."

I swung open the door and pushed Sherlock in.

"Look!" he gasped, "There you are!"

I stared, confused. He pointed to the periodic table mounted on the wall. That again.

"All those metals you could be!" he began to sing, and I understood why he must have taken up the violin. "John is sulfur, John is bromine, John is sodium, John is iodine."

"Alright."

Sherlock flopped on his back, halfway on the bed. I dragged his feet up from the floor and pulled his shoes off.

"Night, Sherlock.";

"John is phosphorus, John is cadimine."

By the time I was halfway up the stairs, the singing had subsided. I shrugged my own shoes off, flopped into bed and fell asleep.

* * *

><p>"John."<p>

"Mm?" I rubbed my eyes and tried to find a suitable mug for coffee.

"I think I am dying."

"Right."

"There is an infernal pounding in my head. If you would be so kind as to lend me your revolver."

"It's all yours if you can get up and get it." I poured some water into the machine.

"John, I warned you that a gift from Myroft is like a wooden horse in Troy. He was poisoned that dreadful beverage, I'm sure of it. Now, his intent…"

"Sherlock. It's a hangover. It's _natural_."

"Explain to me again why you would want to drink that wretched beverage willingly when you knew the consequences?"

"Ask yourself, you drank it, too."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. He steepled his fingers and furrowed his brow. When I left for work, he was still sitting in the same position.

"I'm off to work, Sherlock. Try not to think yourself to death."

* * *

><p>I stopped by the grocery after lunch to pick up more coffee and milk but still made it home relatively early. There hadn't been many patients at the clinic that day.<p>

Sherlock laid sprawled across the settee, his feet on the armrest and violin on his lap. He had his coat and scarf on.

"There you are, John. Could you possibly have taken any longer?" he drawled, straightening up. "I've been waiting."

"Well, I went to the grocery," I defended, gesturing with the milk. You could have texted."

"Phone was in the kitchen. Grab it, will you? And keep your coat on. We're going out. There's a sedentary old coin collector who wants to see us."

* * *

><p>Sherlock hailed a cab. "136 Little Ryder Street," he told the cabbie.<p>

"What's this?" I asked, "A coin collector? I knew you had odd hobbies, but really."

"He sent me an email this morning. Said he'd heard of my website- see, John, people read my website."

"Sure they do."

"Although it seems superficial on the surface, I think it will prove to be an interesting enough case. I need to collect some facts."

"And why did you have to wait for me? You could have gone without me."

"I had to wait for you because you were taking so long. Besides, I can't be expected to take notes on these things."

"What did you _do_ before you had me to do everything for you?"

"At least I didn't have to wait."


	2. Chapter 2

"Welcome, welcome," said the coin collector, a white-haired, wrinkly old fellow. He lived on the first floor of a cramped apartment complex. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes." Even his voice sounded wrinkly.

"Mr. Garrideb. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do?" I said.

"Ah, yes," the old man smiled. He hobbled inward and we followed. The kitchen and entryway of the flat were normal, and I was starting to wonder why Sherlock had found this case interesting at all when we entered the living room. Glass cases hung on the walls, the tables were filled, books stood on shelves, velvet holders on a desk- all of coins.

"My collection," Garrideb said, "I do take some pride in it."

"And rightfully so," said Sherlock, examining a rust-colored, square-shaped specimen framed above the couch. "It is all very impressive."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the old man lowered himself into a chair.

I took the small notebook from my pocket and sat on the couch opposite Mr. Garrideb. "Exactly what is it that's troubling you, Mr. Garrideb?"

"Oh," he smiled, "it's hardly trouble. It's a great joy, really. My collection is an impressive one, perhaps, but still not complete. I'm missing a set of rare Spanish colonial coins, and what should happen yesterday but a fellow collector send me a letter detailing how he'd found a seller for the very set of coins that would bring my collection nearer than ever to completion."

"How convenient," Sherlock drawled. Mr. Garrideb smile even more widely.

"Most, Mr. Holmes."

I cleared my throat. "Why did this man tell you about the rare set, Mr. Garrideb? If he's a collector, too, then surely he would want the set for his own collection."

"That's the neatest part of the deal. My partner- James Winters is his name- collects a different breed of coin than I. He proposed that we go halves on the set and each take the coins most valuable to our own collections. It will work out quite nicely."

"I'm sure you think so," muttered Sherlock, who had begun to stalk around the room.

"So," I piped up, "Why have you hired Sherlock? There doesn't seem to be a problem."

Sherlock turned from his perch above a coin-filled counter to fix me with a puzzled stare. I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Unfortunately, there is. Always seems to be a catch with these sorts of things."

Sherlock turned back to the coins. "Indeed."

"Mr. Winters says that the man selling the coins has gone missing," Mr. Garrideb sighed. Sherlock cleared his throat rather violently. "He says the police have given up. So, Mr. Holmes, I've come to you. Heard you might be able to do something about it. Now, Mr. Winters wasn't too keen on the idea of having a private detective look into it; he thinks he knows where the seller's gone. Says he's in Bristol. Wants me to go there an find the bloke. But I'm not much one for unnecessary ventures out of the house. I thought I might as well ask you to look into it, just to make sure. "

"You thought correctly." Sherlock said, sit with a swoosh in the chair next to me. "Do you still have Winters's letter?"

"It's on my desk." Garrideb hobbled over to a desk I hadn't noticed before, most likely because it was buried under more glass frames filled with coins. Sherlock looped his scarf around his neck. The old man presented the letter to Sherlock, who glanced at it for hardly a second before he handed it back to its owner.

"Yes, certainly Bristol."

I scoffed. "How on _earth_-"

Sherlock held up his hand. "You should take Mr. Winters's advice and go to Bristol tomorrow, Mr. Garrideb. Is Mr. Winters going with you?"

"No, I'm afraid he said he had to attend his sister's birthday party or the like."

"Of course. I'm quite sure you'll find what you're looking for in Bristol, Mr. Garrideb. I would advise you to make the journey there tomorrow."

"Is there not other way? I don't like to leave the house much, gentleman. I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of traveling to another city to try to find a man I've never met.

"We could-" I began to offer, but Sherlock cut me off.

"We couldn't go ourselves," he slipped. "How would we be able to tell if the set was a fake or not? We have not your expertise. It is the only way."

Garrideb sighed. "Well, if it must be so."

Sherlock put his hand on the door.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Garrideb. The best of luck to you tomorrow. Oh, by the by, do you mind if I pop in an have a look at your collection sometime? I am a bit of an enthusiast myself."

"Why, certainly. I could give you a tour myself, if you like."

Sherlock pulled an exaggerated frown.

"Afraid not, Mr. Garrideb. John and I have some important business to attend to. Perhaps we could come by tomorrow, if you don't mind us popping in while you're in Bristol?"

"Fine by me, My. Holmes. I am always happy to share my collection with another enthusiast. Just have my neighbor downstairs buzz you in. I'll let her know what's-"

"Thank you, Mr. Garrideb." Sherlock whished out the door.

I stood from my seat. "Well, um, good luck, Mr. Garrideb. Let us know how it goes." I hurried down the steps and after Sherlock. He was halfway down the block by the time I caught up.

"Sherlock, what? You collect coins?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never be interested in such an inane disposition."

"Then, what? Why do you want to see his collection? And how did you know the seller is in Bristol just from glancing that that letter?"

Sherlock flagged down a cab. "I have some lines to look into. This case may be more dangerous than I had originally thought. I'll see you in Baker Street later. Wait up for me."

He slammed the door. The cab sped away.

* * *

><p>Whether or not Sherlock told me to wait up for him was ultimately irrelevant when we were in the middle of a case. Even if he hadn't told me to, I'd still be awake. Especially with a case that was "more dangerous than he'd thought" and, to me at least, still entirely ambiguous. I didn't even understand why we were still on this case- Sherlock had confirmed that the seller was in Bristol- that should have been the end of the thing. I spent a while trying to draw something together from our interview with Mr. Garrideb, but ended my reflections with just as much information as I'd begun with. Then I watched some telly. It wasn't long before I was yawning and my head drooping. I dozed off at some point, then at half past one woke myself up by dropping the remote on the floor, which produced a bang loud enough to startle me into wakefulness.<p>

How long would he have wanted me to wait up? It was damn late, but this _was_ Sherlock, so I didn't put 1:30 in the morning past him. I should probably just go to bed. But he'd been put for _hours_ now. And he'd said it was "more dangerous than he'd thought".

I sent him a text. And another. And some more. And then a call. Or two. Or five.

A half hour later, he hadn't replied.

I stood up, but then reminded myself to reason, not rush in. I knew nothing about where Sherlock had gone. Wandering about blindly wouldn't help. I sent Lestrade a text:

_Sorry. Know it's late. You know where Sherlock is?_

Twelve minutes later, after I'd paced the hell out of the carpet, my phone vibrated. The reply was filled with typos and grumpy indications of a freshly-awoken detective inspector, but It was a reply.

_Talkd to him at 8. Said h needed look at old criminl files. Still yard whn I left._

I zipped up my coat and locked the door on the way out. It was only after walking a few blocks that I found a cab to hail. I sent Sherlock another text.

_If you're at Yard, you're dead._

I used one of Lestrade's security cards that Sherlock had nicked to get in the Yard entrance and made my way straight to the files room. Luckily, I knew exactly where it was. Lord knows I'd spent enough time in there with Sherlock.

The room was empty.

I paced the area twice, clenching and unclenching my fists. I had no idea where he was. But that didn't mean anything had happened to him. He could just be being obstinate, normal Sherlock, and not replying to my texts. I resolved to go back to Baker Street and wait. If wasn't there by morning, I'd call Mycroft.

It had begun to rain when I left the Yard.

* * *

><p>I heaved a breath and fell into my chair, rubbing my face in a unsuccessful attempt to push out the worry and tiredness.<p>

Something clinked in the kitchen.

I spun around in my chair, the television remote held high.

Sherlock sipped on a cup of tea. "Not your most menacing weapon."

I stood, stepping towards him until I was fairly sure the television remote _did_ look menacing.

"Where," I swallowed an urge to punch one of those stupid cheekbones, "Where have you been?"

"John, imitating Mycroft really does not suit you." He walked past me and sat in his chair.

"You told me to wait up."

"And so you did. My thanks. Now, I would advise you to retire, as we have an eventful-"

"You said it was _dangerous_, and then you told me to wait up."

"As it still has the potential to-"

"_Where_ is your phone."

'Jacket."

I raised the remote high and then put my fist to my mouth. "Have you, _possibly_, taken a look at it all night?"

"You know I don't tolerate distractions when I'm working."

"I went to find you. At the Yard."

"And had little success, I would hazard."

"Probably because you _wouldn't tell me where you went." _

"John, what are you so disconcerted about?"

I opened my mouth. He was genuinely puzzled. The git was _puzzled_.

"You can't- you can't just go off on your own, not tell me where you are or what you're doing, but do tell me that it's dangerous and to wait up, and then not come back until-" I glanced at the clock, gesticulating wildly with the remote- " three in the _bloody _morning!"

I was half whispering, half yelling, because I, unlike some people, am respectful of others and didn't want to wake the neighbors.

"Why can't I do that?"

I strangled a shout and turned a way for a few seconds.

"Normal people," I said slowly, "get worried when their flat mates have potentially been-" I fumbled for some representation of what I though had happened to him, "kidnapped by a gang of ruffians."

"Kidnapped by a gang of ruffians? John, normal people don't get kidnapped by gangs of ruffians. Who gets kidnapped by ruffians?"

"Who doesn't respond to thirty two texts?"

"Alright. I've angered you. But I haven't been kidnapped by ruffians. I'm fine."

"I know, Sherlock."

"I'll responded to your texts form now on."

"No, you won't."

"Well, not when I'm _working_, no."

"Sherlock, don't worry about it. Just don't- do that again."

"Once I figure out what it is I did, I will be sure not to."

I blew out a breath.

"Maybe we should keep some of that infernal alcohol around more often." said Sherlock, hinting at a smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>I lumbered into the kitchen the next morning, sorely in need of four or five strong cups of coffee. Sherlock Holmes was dressed to go out and standing by the fireplace.<p>

"Good morning," he chirped.

"Mhhm."

"There's coffee in the pot."

I raised my eyes. Indeed there was.

"Thammm." I mumbled, which was meant to be an expression of thanks.

"Um, John, if you'd like, I'm gong to wrap up that Garrideb case today. If you're not busy- If you'd like- I'm going to his apartment."

I swallowed the coffee. It was a little burnt. "When do we leave?"

"I was waiting on you."

"Let me get my coat."

* * *

><p>Once we'd sat down in the cab, I began the customary inquiry.<p>

"Alright, Sherlock, fess up. What's the deal with this Winters guy?"

"Come on, John,. You saw everything I did."

"And I saw, but did not observe," I said in my best imitation of Sherlock's voice. "Get on with it."

"Do you remember, five years ago, the shooting at Simpson's restaurant? Of course not. Nothing remarkable about it. I didn't remember it either. But the Yard had it on file. Man by the reputation of "Killer Evans" shoots his friend Prescott, but is able to get off with five years in jail since it was proved Prescott was the agitator. A month earlier, hundreds of online bank accounts were hacked and nearly ten thousand pounds stolen. Police said it was caused by a computer virus, but they couldn't trace it. Never did, but the hacking stopped.

Now, John, besides that he is a coin collector, what did Mr. Garrideb tell us about himself?"

"Um, he doesn't get out much?"

"Precisely. And what coin collector offers to go halves with someone on the coin collection deal of the century? I'm sure you'll agree the bit about the missing seller was a bit far fetched from the start.

"So the seller's fake. Someone's trying to get Garrideb out of the way?"

"But why? Because, five years ago, Prescott lived in the same apartment that Mr. Garrideb lives in now. That's all I'll tell you of the matter for now. We've got more important business. Time to have a look at this coin collection."

Sherlock pressed the intercom.

I scoffed. "You're _not_ a coin collector, Sherlock. Are you?"

A woman's voice emanated from the speaker. "Hello?"

Sherlock shuffled his feet. "Hi, I'm a friend of Mr. Garrideb's. He said you could buzz me in? I'm to have a look at his coin collection.

The muffled voice returned, "Yeah, he mentioned you. Come on up."

The neighbor let us in, smiled, and left. Sherlock took a stroll among the glass cases, peering in at the ancient entities.

"Alright," I stopped in the middle of the room. "what are we doing?"

"Over here, John, we should be able to fit in this corner and still have a nice view."

Sherlock herded me to the far corner of the room, where he pushed me behind a large bookshelf and then squeezed in himself from the other side. He parted two books in the middle in the middle of the shelf, creating a small line of vision.

"Really, Sherlock."

"Wait, John. Just wait. Shh."

So I waited. I was staring to feel my muscles seize up when the door handle turned and the door creaked open. Sherlock leaned over to gaze through the opening in the books.

I could see about half of the room, A young, light-haired fellow had come in, scanning the area to make sure it was empty. Sherlock had picked a good spot. He couldn't see us. The young guy bent down in the middle of the room and pulled a hammer from his coat. With a few swift wrenches, a board was pried from the floor and the man reached down into the cavity below the floor. His hands returned with a shoebox, which he set gingerly on the floor. As he grasped the lid, Sherlock tapped my arm and sprung from behind the bookcase. I followed right behind. We trained our guns on the man . He lifted his hands from the box, at first with surprise and dismay, and then with a weary smile.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I guess you have me beat. You saw through me and-"

In an instant he had whipped out a pistol from his coat and fired off two shots. A red hot pain seared into my thigh. I had a vision of Sherlock bringing the butt of his gun down on the man's head, and I thought it was probably better he hadn't shot, because with his aim, he'd have missed.

Then Sherlock had his hands under my arms and was leading me to a chair.

"You're not hurt, John? Are you hurt?"

"I'm not. It's a scratch, really."

Sherlock took the key to our flat from his pocket and ripped a hole in pant leg.

"Sherlock, really, those are nice pants."

"You're right." he breathed a sigh. The bullet had scraped a good chunk of skin off my leg, but luckily found the wall behind me a better place to lodge itself than my muscle tissue. "Quite superficial." He swiveled to face the man on the floor, rubbing his head. "It's just as well for you. If you'd killed John you wouldn't leave this room alive. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

Apparently he had nothing to say from himself save a moan. Sherlock kicked open the shoebox, his gun still on the man.

"Killer Evans, John, alias James Winters. Serial criminal. What's this, now?"

Evans frowned at the shoe box.

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Doesn't happen to be a computer virus that hacks online bank accounts, does it?"

Evans glared at my friend. "We were going to get rich. We'd only tested it once- by God did it work- before we got in that tussle and I shot him. He was the aggressor, you know."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"He was," growled Evans," besides, I've done my time."

"That does not justify your additional criminal activities."

"Oh, _really_?"

"Yes, reall-"

"_Sherlock_," I snapped, and the two of them glared at me. "So sorry to interrupt the debate, but would mind getting me a towel?" I gestured at my leg, which despite being 'quite superficial' (Sherlock would call anything short of decapitation "superficial") was bleeding with the gall of a real wound; and which I was keen to staunch rather than listening to a pair of ten-year-olds argue.

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Right, necessary to stop the bleeding. I'll find one." He disappeared through another door.

I raised my gun at Evans. "Don't even think about it."

Sherlock returned quickly with a towel, which I tied around my leg. I called Lestrade, Sherlock argued a bit more with Evans, and then a few police officers led him out.

Sherlock looked over at me.

"Don't think Garrideb will want this towel back," I smiled a little, standing up with a little trouble.

"We should go to the hospital."

I hesitated for a second, just a second, and it cost me my argument.

"Don't try to prevaricate, John, you know that it isn't a talent of yours."

"Oh, shut up."

"Surely a cut like that needs stitches."

I sighed. "Yes."

"Then it's settled."

"We're going to have to wait a while."

"I don't mind."

* * *

><p>It turned out that we didn't actually have to wait that long. Apparently limping in to A&amp;E with a bloody towel wrapped around your thigh gives you fairly high priority. They stitched it up and gave me some painkillers. Sherlock sat in the waiting room, his chin in his coat collar.<p>

"Good as new," I said.

* * *

><p>I spent the remainder of the night watching crap telly with my feet up. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, I assumed performing some eclectic experiment with the jar of fungus he'd been keeping in the freezer for the past week.<p>

A teapot howled.

"Sherlock? Are you…making tea?"

He appeared a few seconds later with a tray, to my astonishment, laden with a plate of noodles and cup of tea. To further the whole spectacle, he stopped in front of the couch and held out the offering to me.

I looked up at him. "No, I will not be your test subject."

He scoffed. "No, it's not-"

"And I don't want any painkillers . If you've ground some up into there-"

"They're on the table, where you left them, unopened."

I swiveled my head around. So they were.

"You made dinner? And tea?"

"You have suggested I do something similar in the past."

"No, it's great. Wonderful. Thanks, then."

Sherlock glanced at me sideways. "You're welcome."

I took a bite of the noodles (which were undercooked and overwhelmingly endowed with parmesan) and returned my attention to the television. Sherlock sat in his chair across from me.

"I'm not dying, by the way. As nice as this was, you don't have to wait on me."

"Consider it returning the favor."

We watched a few more minutes of a lady trying to find her long-lost ex-husband (Sherlock providing commentary: "No, you're missing _everything _of _importance_." "That's _not_ a lead!" "Smell the carpet. The _carpet_.")

"I think I'll write up the Garrideb case," I said.

Sherlock grunted in disinterest. Then his head snapped towards me. "The facts, John, are what make this case an interesting one. I suppose it has some warrant simply because of its outré qualities. _Just_ the facts."

"It's a blog, Sherlock."

"If you romanticize this like your other cases-"

"Would you hand me my laptop?"

Sherlock stopped in mid sentence, then settled into a smirk. "I thought I didn't have to wait on you."

"Don't be a git."

He continued to smirk. "Patience, John."

"I won't be invalided forever, Sherlock."

"I'm sure it will be worth the wait."

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ _Here's a possibly non-exhaustive list of canon references in this story, if anyone's interested:_

_The "Dutch cruise ship" vaguely references The Dutch steamship Friesland, mentioned in "The Noorwood Builder" as a case that nearly cost both Holmes and Watson their lives._

_John is relieved the bullet missed the wounded man's subclavian artery, because the shot he took in Afghanistan "grazed the subclavian artery."_

_The nineteenth century criminal Sherlock mentions, when John asks about arrack, who attempts to rob a bank under the cover of a secret society of redheads, is a half reference to "The Red-Headed League."_

_The brand of arrack Sherlock and John drink is "Giant Rat" and Mycroft says the drink was imported from Sumatra. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra" was a case mentioned in passing in "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire" as "a story for which the world is not yet prepared."_

_John says something about his experience over three continents, which originates from the notorious line in SIGN about Watson's "experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents"._

_Sherlock's drunken rambling about flying over the city and looking into people's houses is nabbed from "A Case of Identity"._

_James Winters was one of Killer Evans's "real" names._

_In the cab on the way to Garrideb's apartment, John mocks one of Holmes's oft-used lines: "You see, but you do not observe."_

_The "Simpson's Restaurant" that Sherlock mentions was a favorite restaurant of Holmes and Watson._

_The entire Garrideb case is heavily based on "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs"._


End file.
